At that moment, Damien leaned back in his chair, that smug, poisonous smile still lingering on his face.
"I'm at the peak of my game now," he muttered, tracing his finger along the rim of his glass. "Good news is coming."
He raised the drink in an invisible toast to no one in particular and took a slow, satisfied sip.
Then—
We shift.
Deep underground, beneath the shell of an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city, Damien's men sat gathered in a darkened hideout. Exposed pipes lined the ceiling, and the air smelled of rust and damp cement. A single flickering light bulb swung slowly above them, casting jagged shadows across the concrete walls.
Tension buzzed in the room.
One of the younger men—shifty-eyed and growing impatient—finally broke the silence.
"This is a waste of time," he grumbled, tossing his cigarette aside and pacing in tight circles. "We should've handled her already. Why the delay? Boss knows something we don't, and here we are—sitting on our hands."
